Old Friends
by malaga
Summary: Eliot Spencer and the rest of the Leverage team have to split up at the end of Season 1. Eliot heads for LA, and an old NSA friend of his. Slashy if viewed through appropriate goggles, will get more so if I continue. Eliot/Casey


_A/N: Just practicing with a couple of fandoms in practice for the bigbangcrossover fic thingy. Anyway, I own none of it, but may continue after the madness of exams and fic exchanges is all over. I kind of like where this is going, so who knows?_

"General, we might have a slight problem."

The small woman onscreen pursed her lips and leaned forward, all attention focussed on the man before her. "Define 'slight problem', Agent Casey."

"An old friend of mine has inferred that I'm in the area, and is asking if he can stay with me." He looks as though he would rather be anywhere else as he speaks, staring down at his toes.

"And what clearance does this 'old friend' have?"

"Nowhere near high enough, ma'am. But high enough that if I tell him it's classified…" He shrugs, leaving the rest to the general. Best case scenario, it's memorable enough to be mentioned to anyone asking about oddities in the area. Worst case in that he gets curious enough to come and poke around himself. "He's recently fallen out with a team. Just wants someplace safe to stay until it all gets sorted out."

Another piercing look from the director. "What's the name of this friend?"

John Casey swallows hard, this being the part he was dreading. He's done a lot of freelance work, mostly for the Americans, but enough for other nations that this name isn't exactly on the short list for Medal of Honour candidates. "Eliot Spencer." He admits.

"Major, in your opinion, would Mr. Spencer be willing to accept the idea that Mr. Bartowski is merely an analyst and help you with any protection he may need?"

For the first time, John meets her eyes, shock briefly passing over his features before reverting to the standard mask. "I am not entirely certain what you mean, General."

"Do not play dumb with me, Major." She sighs and rubs her temples with two fingers, a rare show of weakness. "The CIA cannot be trusted, and yet, our agreement states that I bring in no more NSA agents. A free worker may be just what we need to ensure Mr. Bartowski's current position remains exactly as is." Left unsaid were the word 'firmly under our control', but they echoed through the room.

"Yes, Ma'am. If I approach him with a contract to that effect, he will sign it."

"Excellent. Will he need employment?"

Casey pictures his old friend spending any length of time with the Buymore crowd. He's vaguely thankful when he can say with complete honesty; "He's all sorted. Thank you, General."

"No. Thank you, Major Casey." The prim woman nods once, before cutting the connection and leaving him with a blank screen.

********

A man gets off the plane, casually flirting with a pair of flight attendants. He slings an old knapsack over his shoulder and goes down an escalator, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face. Not that it takes much scanning - Casey stands in his own space, arms crossed, six foot four inches of belligerent man.

Eliot grins, sees John's answering smile. It's been a while since they've seen each other, and neither are exactly the sort to pine wistfully after men they once knew. Monogamy was never even on the table. Still, they gravitate toward each other, whenever other jobs don't get in the way.

"That all you brought?"

Eliot nods, and they walk off, in step all the way. The silence isn't broken until they reach the car.

"How you been, anyway?" John asks, honestly concerned.

Eliot turns to him, and is ready to snap out an answer, to take out some of his anger by yelling the things he sat on the plane thinking about someday telling Sophie and Nate. Instead, he just sags. "Not great."

"Wanna work with me?"

It doesn't even take him a moment to think, and he looks over at the other man, enjoying just being there. "Sure. Sounds like fun."

"I haven't even told you the job." John's tone is exasperated but fond.

"Alright. What is it?"

"Babysitting an asset so green he embarrasses lettuce, watching my back from both the obvious enemies _and _my so-called partner, and helping me maintain my cover as normal middle-class loser."

Eliot blinks, eyes a shocking shade of blue. "Sounds like… fun." He scribbles his name on a contract John holds out, standard NSA stuff they've both done far too often. "I'm gonna be working in my restaurant. All sorted out."

"Your restaurant?" John asks quizzically as they get in the car.

"Things were going pretty good for a while." They share another look, one of the eloquent ones they've perfected over the years. John breaks first, grunting and turning his attention back to the road. Eliot lays a warm hand on his thigh, pressure both reassurance and apology, and the sun shines brightly down through the windscreen.

They're back at his place too soon.


End file.
